


Four Times Sherlock Holmes Bent the Truth, and One Time He Was Completely Honest

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Families of Choice, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: What it says on the tin: Four times Sherlock Holmes lied, and one time he told the truth. Takes place post-Series 4.
Relationships: Irene Adler & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 115
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2017





	Four Times Sherlock Holmes Bent the Truth, and One Time He Was Completely Honest

**Author's Note:**

> Written two years ago for holmestice, and finally posting it here! Gifted to afteriwake.
> 
> Many thanks to my brit-picker smallhobbit and to my beta ancientreader, especially for suggesting a specific alternative for the baking fiasco ;)
> 
> Thanks also to Ariane_Devere for use of her transcript for TLD, found [here](https://arianedevere.dreamwidth.org/63351.html)
> 
> This is mostly a Gen fic, but contains background Mycroft/Lestrade, and also references to past!Sherlock/Irene

1.

"John!” Sherlock clutches the phone to his chest. “What should I say? I can’t lie, not after…”  
  
“Sherlock, you are the _master_ of lies,” John hisses. “You’ve practically made lying into an art form. Just… make sure she’s here within the hour. She still likes you, you know. If you must, make it about me instead of you.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. He knows, logically, that she has forgiven him, that she understands he had only done what he had to save her life. Still, even the thought of a little white lie, after all that he had put her through, makes an unpleasant feeling settle in his gut. It feels too much like manipulation -- like the way he _used_ to treat her.  
  
With a sense of trepidation, he dials her number.  
  
“Hello, Molly? It’s me. Listen, I’m sorry to call on such short notice, but I’ve been called out for a case and John is still at work. Would you by chance be available to look after Rosie?”  
  
Good god, when had he become so _polite?_  
  
“Wonderful. Thank you, Molly, I’ll owe you one.” He rings off and catches John’s eye. “She’ll be here in forty-five minutes.”  
  
“Great. Who hasn’t arrived yet?”  
  
“Still waiting on Lestrade. Honestly, I don’t understand why it takes him so long to get here from Scotland Yard.”  
  
John smirks. “Unless he isn’t coming from Scotland Yard.”  
  
“Where else would he be coming from? The man’s never home; he’s a workaholic.”  
  
John opens his mouth to reply, when a firm _rap rap rap_ sounds from the front of the flat. “That’s probably him. Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”  
  
Sherlock never gets the chance, since the rest of the time ends up being a whirlwind of final preparations.  
  
  
Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock opens the door and ushers Molly in to a chorus of _“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”_  
  
  
  
2.  
  
Once a month, Sherlock and Molly have a standing ‘date’. They meet at her flat and just -- hang out. Sometimes they watch a movie; other times they play board games. Once they prepared a five-course meal together, and when they discovered they weren’t hungry enough to eat it all, they bundled themselves (and the food) up and delivered it to the nearest homeless shelter. Another time, they sat on her balcony smoking and drinking wine, telling each other their darkest secrets and their deepest fears.  
  
This time, Molly has spent several hours trying to prepare hot crab puffs using homemade puff pastry. The first attempt was unsuccessful, so she painstakingly started over. The second time she had a hard time keeping the butter sufficiently firm, so she had to keep re-chilling the dough several times before it finally cooperated. All of the unexpected extra time that the preparations took meant that Molly hadn’t had a chance to clean up the mess before Sherlock arrived.  
  
All this Sherlock deduces as soon as he walks in, sniffs the air, and takes in the chaotic state of her kitchen.  
  
“I tried something new,” Molly says, clearly flustered as she trails behind him. “John mentioned once that you like crab puffs, so I wanted to give it a go. I thought I’d make the puff pastry from scratch. Would you like to try one now? Or do you want to wait until after the show? I’m allergic so I have no idea how they turned out.”  
  
Sherlock senses Molly’s eagerness. This is important to her.  
  
“You made them just for me, then?” Sherlock asks, oddly touched. “Why would you prepare something that you yourself can’t enjoy?”  
  
Molly shrugs, a blush creeping up her neck. “I just thought you’d like them, that’s all. I’ve got nibbles for myself if I get peckish.”  
  
Sherlock smiles. “I’ll try some now.”  
  
“Excellent!” Molly claps her hands as she whirls around and grabs a plate from her cabinet. She plops two crab puffs onto it and shoves it at Sherlock.  
  
Molly watches intently, biting her lip as Sherlock raises a piece to his mouth and starts to chew.  
  
It’s all Sherlock can do to refrain from visibly shuddering. He successfully holds back a grimace, manages to swallow, and smiles weakly at her.  
  
“Brilliant.”  
  
  
3.  
  
“Molly, this isn’t Lestrade’s address.”  
  
“Nope,” Molly replies, popping the ‘P’ dramatically. She giggles, flushed and happy. “Whoops!” she exclaims, grabbing his sleeve as she trips over her cloak. She reaches up to adjust her black hat, which was in the process of sliding off her head.  
  
“This is my brother’s house.” He stares at her, suspicious. “Why are we here?”  
  
“Because this is where the party is.”  
  
“Mycroft doesn’t host parties.”  
  
“No, but Greg does.” She tugs on his arm impatiently. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s cold out here, Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock frowns. He flicks his eyes from side to side, trying to interpret the data. After a few seconds, he shrugs. Whatever it is, he’ll figure it out. He lifts his hand and knocks on his brother’s door.  
  
+++  
  
“Oh god!” Sherlock proclaims as he walks in on his brother and Lestrade canoodling on the sofa next to the punch bowl. He claps his hands over his eyes. “Molly! I need bleach for my eyeballs. Why didn’t you warn me?”  
  
“Honestly, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs, untangling his legs from Greg’s. “I thought you were supposed to be the second most observant man in London.”  
  
Sherlock drops his hands and scowls. _“London?”_  
  
Mycroft rolls his eyes. He rises elegantly from the sofa, tugs on his waistcoat, and affects an air of superiority. “What _are_ you dressed as, little brother? Don’t you find that inappropriate?”  
  
Sherlock lifts the black eyepatch, the better to glare daggers at his brother with both eyes.  
  
“Why? I didn’t delete _that_ part of my childhood. I’ve always loved adventure stories.” He tucks a stray curl underneath the red kerchief he wears as a bandana. “What’s wrong with _you?_ You didn’t even dress up for your own party.”  
  
Mycroft raises his chin and sniffs. He reaches for the umbrella propped against the side of the sofa. “I _am_ dressed up. Tell him, Gregory.”  
  
Lestrade smirks. “He fancies himself a Kingsman. Harry Hart, to be specific.” He pops his fangs back into his mouth and strokes his slicked-back, dyed-black hair. Sherlock has to admit he does cut quite a dashing figure in his black cape with red velvet lining and his rented tuxedo.  
  
“I don’t know who that is,” Sherlock grouses. “Molly, could you get us both some punch, please? I have to attend to something, I’ll be right back.”  
  
“Get your own punch,” Molly shouts at his back as Sherlock glides upstairs to use Mycroft’s ostentatious, over-the-top bathroom.  
  
+++  
  
Thirty minutes in, Sherlock is already crushingly bored. Everyone else is currently in the parlour -- playing parlour games -- while Sherlock is currently on the second-floor balcony off the guest room he considers his, smoking a cigarette. John won’t be best pleased when he arrives home smelling like smoke. At least by that time Rosie will be tucked in bed, sleeping off the excitement of her first Halloween.  
  
He jumps when pressure settles on his right shoulder; he feels more than sees something start to scuttle down the length of his arm.  
  
_“Aaaahhhh!_ ” Sherlock drops his cigarette and shrinks back against the sliding glass door, frantically shaking his arm in a panicked effort to dislodge whatever it is.  
  
The balcony floods with brightness. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the sudden influx of light. About six inches above his head, a rubber spider dangles from a fake cobweb hanging out of the third-floor window directly overhead.  
  
The door to the balcony slides open. “Sherlock?” Molly asks. It’s disconcerting to hear her voice come out of a stranger’s mouth. She’s completely unrecognisable with the green makeup and fake nose adding to her costume. “Did you just scream like a little girl? Were you _scared?”_  
  
“What? No, of course not! Me, scared?” Sherlock surreptitiously steps on the smoldering cherry and grinds it into the concrete surface.  
  
“Then what was that noise?”  
  
“Noise? Oh. I -- lost the grip on my phone, and almost dropped it over the railing. Not to mention I slipped trying to get to it. It’s a very expensive phone, I can’t afford to lose it. That must be what you heard.”  
  
“Me and the entire house. You made quite the racket.”  
  
“Yes, well…” Sherlock curses the blush that he can feel heating up his face.  
  
Molly smiles. “Dinner will be served shortly. I’ve come to fetch you.”  
  
Sherlock blanches. “Dinner? You mean I’m expected to sit through an entire _meal?_ I’ve been nibbling on… nibbles this entire time.”  
  
Molly rolls her eyes. “Yes, dinner. Did you not even bother reading the invitation? Why do you think I brought that expensive bottle of wine?”  
  
Sherlock shrugs. “Polite guest behaviour? Something I rarely concern myself with?”  
  
“Exactly. Now come on, the food is probably ready by now.”  
  
Sherlock looks at his watch. He lets his head fall back and groans. He stares at the sky as if it holds all the secrets to life. “Fine. Just -- give me a sec.”  
  
Molly nods, and slides the door shut before making her way back to the rest of the house.  
  
Sherlock nudges the remains of his cigarette off the edge of the balcony. He glares at the still-hanging spider as it continues to sway in the air. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh and squares his shoulders.  
  
“Into battle.”  
  
  
4.  
  
Sherlock occasionally texts Irene. He’s careful now only to do it when John isn’t in the same room. Normally he’s amused when John decides to display his protective side, but when it comes to Irene it’s more than that; John’s reaction to the Woman has always smacked of jealousy. As usual, John sees but does not observe.  
  
Sherlock and Irene had that one night in Karachi, but it’s never been repeated. Irene has Kate now, and Sherlock has… well, _people._ It used to be just the Work, but he’s self-aware enough these days to admit the truth, at least to himself. He has a family that he’s committed himself to, even if they don’t all live within the same four walls.  
  
Tonight he’s met up with Irene in person, but not for any amorous purpose. They’ve done so every year on his birthday, unbeknownst to anyone else, with the exception of that one time that Sherlock tries not to think about.  
  
  
_“I’m gonna make a deduction… And if my deduction is right, you’re gonna be honest and tell me, okay?... Happy birthday.”_  
  
  
Irene’s penthouse provides a fantastic view overlooking the Thames, thanks to two walls that consist entirely of windows. Lighting has been turned down low inside, and the effect is almost magical. Even though the holidays have passed, the sentiment clings to the atmosphere and is slow to dissipate. Darkness presses against the glass, relieved and punctuated by falling whiteness -- a study in contrast. Snow swirls down, some flakes sticking to the glass while others are caught in eddies that carry them gently to the ground.  
  
Sherlock and Irene lounge on her sofa, pressed shoulder to shoulder. Dinner was eaten a while ago, and now they both nurse stemless glasses of wine. The television displays some old black-and-white program, something holiday-themed. Sherlock recognises the actor, but he couldn’t say what his name is. It’s locked down tight somewhere in his mind dungeon. Jim? James? He shudders. No wonder he shies away from the memory.  
  
He is enjoying the movie, though. Whoever the actor is, he’s very good. As are all the supporting cast, really. Irene couldn’t believe it when he told her he’d never seen it, so of course she insisted that it be on the schedule for the evening. After dinner, of course.  
  
Sherlock watches the protagonist spiral deeper and deeper into despair, until he’s standing on a bridge looking down into the churning waters. Sherlock feels a twinge of empathy; he’s been at that point before, and more than once. He doesn’t ever want to be there again. Alcohol always magnifies Sherlock’s emotions, making them press against the inside of his skin until it feels like they’re trying to claw their way out of him, making him itch and squirm. The memory of John’s stag night rushes in, how Tessa’s story had unaccountably touched him. It’s happening again.  
  
Sherlock’s breath hitches, and wet warmth spills down his cheeks. Appalled, he furtively wipes his face. But it’s too late; Irene has heard his intake of breath.  
  
She turns her head and stares at him. Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the screen. He blinks once, sniffs twice.  
  
“Oh dear God. Sherlock, are you _crying?”_  
  
Sherlock huffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. My allergies are acting up.”  
  
Irene laughs, not unkindly. “What allergies? You don’t have any, that I’m aware of.”  
  
“Sinus infection, then. Perhaps the beginnings of a cold. Whatever it is, please do be quiet. As I told you before, I have never seen this movie and I don’t want to miss anything.”  
  
“Right.” Irene turns her head back to the screen and takes a sip of wine. Sherlock risks a look out of the corner of his eye; she is smiling into her glass, eyes twinkling as the light from the television caresses her face. She really is quite a beautiful woman, if one is into that sort of thing.  
  
Sherlock isn’t quite as embarrassed as he thought he would be. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really care if the Woman thinks that a movie, of all things, has pulled sentiment out of him. He’s come a long way since the days when he believed it was a chemical defect found on the losing side. They’ve both come a long way since then. But that doesn’t mean he’s willing to admit to it. His defenses are down -- he’s drowsy, sated, and slightly drunk -- and he’s not above using that as an excuse. After all, it’s only when his transport is compromised that he allows these feelings to bubble up to the surface.  
  
They watch the rest of the movie in silence. Parts of it are so ridiculous that Sherlock would normally roll his eyes and make snarky comments throughout. Tonight, though, nostalgia has him in its grip. Nostalgia for _what_ , though, he couldn’t really say. He finds himself tearing up _again_ when the sound of a bell chimes near the end, signalling that the… angel?... has finally earned his wings.  
  
Preposterous. No wonder Sherlock deleted the experience long ago, if in fact he ever _had_ watched it. Which he sincerely doubts.  
  
  
The evening ends predictably. It’s a ritual for them at this point. Irene retrieves Sherlock’s coat and scarf, and hands them to him. After armouring himself, Sherlock leans in and places a kiss on both her cheeks. She smiles up at him.  
  
“Risky, moving back into the country whose government would like nothing more than to lock you up,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Hiding in plain sight. It’s worked for me so far. Besides, everyone thinks I’m dead. No one’s looking for me.” Irene reaches up and strokes his cheek.  
  
“Sure I can’t convince you to stay?” she asks. “The second bedroom is quite luxurious. Or perhaps you’d like to join me and Kate; I think she’d be up for a threesome if it included you.” Irene’s eyes twinkle, and she winks at him.  
  
It’s the game they play almost every time. Irene’s invitation has never been sincere, and Sherlock has never been tempted. And this year, Sherlock actually has something to look forward to back home.  
  
“Rain check,” he responds by rote, parroting the expected lines.  
  
“One that will never be redeemed,” Irene replies. “That’s all right. I got to witness the great Sherlock Holmes weeping during _It’s a Wonderful Life._ That’s almost as satisfying.”  
  
Sherlock plasters on a scowl. “I was not _weeping,_ ” he lies.  
  
“Don’t worry; your secret’s safe with me.”  
  
“There is no secret to keep!”  
  
Irene smiles. “Have it your way. Better leave now while the pavement is still clear. Oh, and Sherlock? Give your family my regards.”  
  
Sherlock nods, and leaves. He tucks his gloved hands into his coat pockets as he emerges from the rotating doors out into the elements. It’s not snowing all _that_ hard, and the pavement is not yet slick. The time is just shy of nine o’clock, so he anticipates having an easy time catching a cab. But for the moment he wants to walk, breathe in the London air, and anticipate his homecoming.  
  
His “family” is gathered in the sitting room of Baker Street, awaiting his arrival. They all think that he’s spent the day chasing clues for a private client. There will be cake, hopefully ice cream, more drinks, and gifts. Confirmed attendees include his parents, Mrs Hudson, John, Molly, Lestrade (meaning Mycroft will be there as well, ugh). If he’s lucky Rosie will still be up to lend her youthful enthusiasm to the proceedings.  
  
Warmth floods his chest at these thoughts. There hasn’t been a planned gathering of more than two people for his birthday since he was fifteen years old. He feels giddy as a schoolboy.  
  
His phone chimes with a text. Sherlock reads it, and grins.  
  
_Hope you’re on your way. Happy birthday, you brilliant bastard - JW_  
  
  
  
**AND ONE TIME HE TOLD THE TRUTH**  
  
  
  
+1  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes, my love?”  
  
“Are you happy?”  
  
Sherlock lifts his head from the microscope and regards the ten-year-old sitting across from him. She isn’t looking at him, her attention riveted on the textbook in front of her. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth as she scribbles something on a notepad.  
  
“Where is this question coming from?” he asks.  
  
Rosie shrugs. “Just curious. I’ve been asking everybody. Daddy, Mrs Hudson, Aunt Molly, Mycroft…”  
  
Sherlock snorts. “Mycroft’s only happy when he’s making a power play on a foreign country.”  
  
“I think Uncle Greg makes him happy.”  
  
“Humanise him at your own risk, my dear.”  
  
Rosie giggles. “Daddy said he used to be called the Iceman. He’s only ever been warm towards me.”  
  
Sometimes Sherlock forgets how precocious his goddaughter is. Her diction is really quite impressive for such a young girl.  
  
“He knows that if he were anything but, he would have to answer to Captain John Hamish Watson.”  
  
“Sherlock! You know he _hates_ that name.”  
  
“Not my fault. It _is_ his name, and he’s had fifty years to get used to it.”  
  
“Well, you don’t like _your_ full name. You only use half of it.”  
  
Sherlock frowns. “Who told you that?”  
  
Rosie sniffs. “Deduce it.”  
  
_“Mycroft,”_ Sherlock spits.  
  
Rosie grins. “Mycroft is cool, Sherlock. I like him. Anyway, you haven’t answered the question.”  
  
“Happiness is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models.”  
  
“Wrong. That’s beauty.”  
  
“You must stop listening to the stories your father tells you. Most aren’t fit for discerning ears to hear.”  
  
“I have a most excellent father. And godfather as well.”  
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear.”  
  
Rosie sighs. She closes her textbook with a slam, and leans on it with her crossed arms. “Sherlock, just answer the bloody question.”  
  
“Rosie! Language!”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“No, you’re not. Just watch it in the future. Especially when your dad’s around.”  
  
Rosie snorts. “Who do you think I picked it up from? _Mycroft?”_  
  
“Nevertheless, let’s not tempt fate.”  
  
Sherlock stands and walks out of the kitchen into the sitting area, hands in his pockets. He sweeps his eyes from one end to the other, noting what has changed and what has stayed the same since he and John first moved in together all those years ago. Sometimes he lived here with just John, sometimes he was on his own, but for the majority of the time it’s been the three of them.  
  
They are an unconventional family at best. John hasn’t dated at all since he moved back in when Rosie was just a few months old; he’s not ever expressed a desire to. Rosie has never indicated that she feels the lack of a mother figure. She takes it as a given that Sherlock and her father are raising her together.  
  
The arrangement has caused some gossip, of course. Almost everyone assumes that the two of them are ‘together’ in a romantic and sexual sense. They aren’t, though. They never have been. They don’t share a bed, or kisses, or a last name.  
  
They do, however, share a life. For several years now, it’s been an unspoken assumption that they will continue to do so until one or both of them are dead. Sherlock’s not sure how to define what they are beyond ‘platonic life partners’. It sounds clichéd, and not even real. But it is what it is. Rosie has never questioned it. It’s their normal.  
  
Mrs Hudson still lives downstairs in 221A. Sherlock figures she has a few good years left in her, and that she’ll probably die here. When that happens, he’s not sure what they’ll do, but he won’t think about that yet. Rosie won’t be ready to leave for another eight years or so, and Sherlock hopes that they can remain at 221b for at least that long. He can’t think of any other place he’d rather be.  
  
Sherlock has continued meeting up with Irene every year on his birthday; the only thing that’s changed there is that it’s now an open secret. He hangs out regularly with Molly, both inside and outside the morgue. He and John still work with the Met, although it’s with Hopkins now that Lestrade is chief superintendent. Most of their cases come from private clients these days. Mycroft regularly stops in to harass the two of them and bully Sherlock into working for him. Only now they are forced to interact with both Lestrade and Mycroft _together_ on occasion.  
  
John works at the clinic part-time. He allows Sherlock to co-parent Rosie, which really isn’t that unmanageable once the two of them work out a system. And they have lots of support.  
  
Sherlock still gets bored and occasionally shoots the walls. He doesn’t, however, do drugs. He doesn’t even use patches. Sometimes he saws away at the violin in the middle of the night, but more often than not when there’s a violin in his hand it’s because he’s tutoring Rosie.  
  
Sherlock walks over to the window and pulls the curtain aside. He stares down at the traffic and pedestrians travelling along Baker Street. In a little over an hour John will be coming home from the clinic, carrying takeaway from Angelo’s. They will eat, and the two of them will help Rosie with her homework. Sherlock will write up his case notes while John and Rosie watch some horrendous show on the telly. After Rosie has been put to bed, the two of them will sit in their respective chairs by the fire, nursing drinks and sharing anecdotes from their day.  
  
Yes, some things have changed. But the essence of Baker Street remains the same as it’s ever been. After all these years, it’s still home.  
  
Sherlock turns to look at Rosie, who is staring at him intently.  
  
Sherlock smiles. “I’m happier than I have ever been, or ever thought I would be.”


End file.
